Criminal World
by MapleFlavouredIce
Summary: He's sure that the Speedwagon Foundation would have preferred that the Brando line had ended with Dio Brando himself. Second best would have been the line ending with his generation. Takes place right before the events of It's Always You. Discord links in my profile.
1. You've got a very heavy reputation

The Armani hotel is right on Via Manzoni, a not even five minute's walk from Via della Spiga. It is with no little humor that Giorno finds himself in Milan for the business of _cleaning up_, as it were. While most, and indeed, himself included, had thought that the Banda della Comasina was a long forgotten memory of the 80s, he'd found stragglers and upstarts working with the remaining members of the Camorra in Sicily. His punishments had been swift and exacting on the Southern groups, and now he was here, up North. The majority of yesterday had been spent with himself, Guido, and Fugo going around and following up on Passione intelligence. None of the Banda della Comasina had been stand users. It seemed that trait of organized crime was unique to Passione in that respect, and would stay that way for the foreseeable future. The Arrow was his, and his alone, no matter how much the Speedwagon Foundation pressed.

And so Giorno finds himself here, late into the morning but not late enough for his tired eyes, sipping a cappuccino and enjoying his chocolate-filled sfogliatella. The staff had all evidently been made aware of his presence, and a poor girl had burnt herself in the process of making the espresso. He'd been half tempted to make it himself, but apparently someone had mentioned his fondness for chocolate, and they had brought out some wonderful looking pastries before he could even get up. There had been some attractive cornetti on the plate, but the sfogliatella had been the clear winner. The leafy layers were crisp, the texture buttery, and the filling rich and dark. All in all, an enjoyable way to pass the time while he waited for Trish.

He knows when she arrives if only because he can feel it, as he can feel the pull with any of those now close to him. Her particular presence compels him to watch the entrance just as she walks in, and he sees her coat before he sees her. He knows her jacket to be Prada because it is the very same that he had been eyeing at their Spiga store, and it falls several centimeters below her knees. It's a double-breasted gabardine coat in bright red with six golden buttons down her front, three on each side. Her coat is open, just barely enough to get a flash of her blouse and skirt, but mostly he finds himself looking at her shoes, which are the brown calfskin leather D&G ankle boots he had gotten her when she had mentioned going to the Swiss Alps to do some filming.

He sees when she spots him on her face. Her mouth, which had been pulled into a neutral line, splits into a smile so wide it causes her eyes to crinkle, and he finds himself answering in kind, standing up to greet her. Her path towards him is straight and quick, and her hug is tight. He recognizes her perfume as well, an Yves Rocher coconut eau de toilette that he'd also bought her, but for the summer. She kisses both his cheeks not once but twice, and he has to laugh when he feels the smudge of her lip balm against his skin.

"Good morning, I take it?" he asks once she's pulled away enough for him to see her face, and he puts light hands on her waist, not ending the hug.

"I heard from Fugo that it went well yesterday," she taps his nose with a carefully manicured nail before pulling the rest of the way free, and wags that same finger in his face, "which means that you should be completely free today."

He gestures at the table and the remaining cornetti, of which she takes one. "Indeed I am. Would you still like to go to the Galleria?" The _Galleria_ being the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, one of Italy's oldest shopping malls.

"Of course!" she says around a mouthful of pastry. "But first, could we go to your room?" He can tell when she gets to the chocolate by the scrunch of her brow, and he's already laughing before she can say anything. "Oh, too sweet—Giorno, how can you eat this?"

He sweeps an arm out, ignoring her comment about the, quite frankly, delicious filling. Her loss, his gain. "After you to the elevator." And after her he is indeed. Her leggings, which had at first appeared to be a simple pair in opaque black, reveal their secret when she turns around—two stripes of golden dots running down the length of her legs, disappearing under the hem of her coat and the tops of her boots. He's fairly sure the gold would match the buttons on her coat, but he'd have to check, and that would require the awkward dance of admitting to inspecting her legs a touch too closely. He leaves them uncommented on, but certainly not unappreciated. The smirk she shoots him over her shoulder tells him that he wasn't as subtle as he thought he was.

They get to his room in short order, an executive suite on the fourth floor that opens into a living room, which has a large modern sectional sofa and a couch-level coffee table in the center of it. She sits down before he can even offer to take her jacket, and she crosses her legs and arms in front of her. He suddenly feels painfully awkward, and is not sure what exactly changed between meeting in the lobby and getting up to his room. He goes to sit down near her.

"I like the jacket," he says when she doesn't offer anything, and he smooths a hand over his braid to give himself something to do.

She flashes him another smile, the very same that she had given him when they had gone to the elevator. "I knew that you would."

The issue with Trish, he finds, is that he never understands her intent. He imagines that for anyone else, they might say it was obvious. The shoes, the perfume, the jacket—_obvious_. And he can understand the aesthetics of it, but for all that Giorno likes Trish, he finds her—her attention, her attraction… intimidating. Over the phone, it's a simple matter of just talking to her. But in person… maybe he's just over-complicating this, overthinking it. He looks at her, and finds her already looking at him, and he can't tell what she's trying to find in his face, what she wants his reaction to be.

"Have you ever wanted children?" she asks him after a moment of neither of them speaking, and the question jolts him out of whatever thoughts he had been having about the way her hair is curling around her face.

"Children…?" Giorno repeats, wondering if he's somehow misheard Trish.

She nods at her question. "I've spent pretty much my entire life thinking that I could never have any," she says without so much as a by your leave.

The subject of children was not one Giorno thought about often, if ever. He also didn't like to think about parents either. The Speedwagon Foundation had spent every effort trying to impress upon him the sheer evilness of Dio Brando, and he had his own firsthand experience with his mother and step-father. So, no, it wasn't something he thought of. Add to that the fact that he had never felt happier than when he had put a stop to his periods with testosterone, and he was essentially a man for whom the concept of _having children_ and _being a parent_ would be best represented by a giant, glowing STOP sign. He hopes that the discomfort doesn't show on his face, doesn't want it to get misinterpreted as directed at something other than his personal feelings on the subject.

"Did something…" _change? Happen? _He's not sure what he would even ask in this situation. Of the things being Don of Passione has prepared him for, this is not one of them.

"I found out that I'm not—I'd always been told that I'd be—" She looks down, and plays with the lapels of her coat. Giorno scoots closer to her on the couch and takes both of her hands. As he has come to so strongly associate with Trish, her nails are meticulously manicured with rosy French tips, and her skin is soft. She looks back up at him, and her fine brows are scrunched with her frown. "As a child, they told me that I was sterile."

He squeezes her hands. "And I take it that you're not?"

"No," she says with a wet laugh and a shake of her head, "just infertile."

"Trish," Giorno says as gently as he can, "didn't you tell me Bruno had… he had zipped off…?"

She turns her hands around in his and brings her fingers around his wrists. "Oh, he did. But—hm. May I be blunt?" Giorno nods. "I asked him to take off my penis, but, because of a few… issues of my birth, I had undescended testes, and I really didn't want him rooting around to figure out how to zip them _out_ of me."

"Trish," Giorno says a bit forcefully, "don't ever say there were _issues_ with your birth. You are—it is a joy to know the woman that you are today, and it's disgusting to hear that anyone would have described you or your existence that way."

Trish shakes her head. "Anyways," she says with an embarrassed noise, "I found out that if I go the route of fertility treatments and IVF… I could have children."

She squeezes his wrists, and Giorno bumps their shoulders together, pressing close to her. "I'm so happy for you, Trish." The angle is a bit awkward because of their hands between them, and after a moment of having his right arm scrunched into her left side, he decides to throw that arm around her shoulders and pull her in close. He gets an answering arm around his own shoulders, and the touch startles him so badly that he jostles Trish. Spice Girl's golden eyes stare back at him when he turns his head, and whether through simple strength of her arms or through her softening power, Giorno finds himself being squished both into Trish and the couch.

"I take it she's happy as well?" Giorno asks when they've both been sufficiently flattened, and the world looks like how he imagines it would for those Dover sole lying on the seafloor with both eyes on the same side of their head.

"She's trying to tell me to say something, actually." Trish says from somewhere underneath him, voice indistinct.

"And _I'll_ say it, if you don't." Spice Girls emphasizes by squishing the two of them further, and Giorno has to reach a wobbly hand out to pat Spice Girl's arm. She relents and the two of them bounce back to their former positions, with surprisingly not a hair out of place. Now that he can, Giorno brings his forehead to Spice Girl's.

"Hello to you too," he says with a few deep breaths, enjoying the sensation of actually being able to feel his chest expand with air. Spice Girl is not a stand that he gets to see often, and every time he does he finds her to be… not quite abrasive, but definitely forceful. He thinks that were it not for his face quite literally in front of Spice Girl's, she would be looking at Trish, and he wonders what else she could have to say that would make her hesitate so. "Would it make you feel better if I went to another room?" he asks while Spice Girl continues to give him an indecipherable stare.

"No—"

"Yes—" Spice Girl and Trish say at the same time, and Giorno's not entirely sure which he should listen to. He untangles his arms from the both of them anyways, and scooches off the couch, awkwardly making his way around and to the mini bar.

"Drink?" he asks, but hears no answer. He decides not to look back and instead rummages uselessly through tiny bottles before eventually picking out a water, all while Trish and Spice Girl have a whispered conversation behind him.

"Alright!" Trish says, and when he turns around, he sees Spice Girl lounging with both her arms on the back of the couch, spread out as pleased as a cat with cream. Next to Spice Girl, Trish plays with her jacket lapels again. She looks up at him, and her eyes are a very bright green. "I was wondering if you'd have a child with me."

Giorno drops the water bottle. It falls to the floor with a dull thud, and bumps into his shoe. Beside Trish, Spice Girl has also turned her golden gaze onto him. "A child," he repeats, feeling a bit like a broken record. "With me?"

Trish gets up, and Giorno watches her, feeling like he will keep seeing the curve of her knees over and over again in his mind's eye as he hears _a child_ repeated in his head. Maybe he had been too good at hiding his distaste on the topic. He feels hands on his waist before he notices that Trish had been walking towards him, and not simply getting up. "I'm sorry," she says, and for a wild moment he thinks that he's somehow forgotten how to understand spoken language before the words rush back to him, "that was a bit out of nowhere, wasn't it?" He nods his head in numb disbelief. "I'd just been thinking about it for a while. And out of anyone that I would ask," up close her eyes are an even more remarkably clear green color, and it is with no little distress that he notices how lovely a shade her eyelashes are, "it would be you." The perfume smells wonderful on her, as he thought it would. _Obvious_, he thinks to himself. _Would it have been obvious to everyone else?_

"I will not," he says in a panicked rush, "carry a child."

Trish brings a tentative hand to his chin. "I would never—I didn't mean to imply—" She rubs a worried thumb over his lower cheek, and he feels the slight shake in her finger through his skin. "I was thinking of getting a surrogate." He can feel the hand still at his waist clutch at the fabric of his sweater, and he brings his own hands to her shoulders. There's a delay between his thoughts and his actions, and he feels slower than the time he woke up with no arms in the Tyrrhenian Sea. Would he still be…? It had been the better part of a decade since he'd started hormones. Would he still…? He didn't even know if he could have children under the best of circumstances, let alone these.

"I'm not saying no," he says with a press of his hands down on her shoulders, "but I'm going to need time."

Trish nods her head. "I know that you don't like to talk about this," ah, so she _had_ noticed, "but when I found out, you were the first person that I thought of."

"And I'm honored," Giorno says while running his own hands over her jacket, "but this is… a bit much."

"Please, Giorno. Don't feel pressured because of me. If you don't want to, I completely understand."

He looks at the details of her face—the way that one eyebrow is slightly higher than the other, the freckles that he can still see under her foundation, the soft color of her gloss. "It's because it's you asking that I'm thinking about it. For you, I would…" he trails off when he feels her move her body closer to his. Her smile reminds him of the one that she had, back when she had first spotted him in the lobby. He doesn't finish his sentence.

* * *

**A/N:** Title taken from Criminal World by Fenech-Soler (cover of the David Bowie song, which is also a cover of the original song written by METRO.)

I've decided to post shorter chapters instead of all at once :)

Listening to:

Criminal World by Fenech-Soler: watch?v=oR3JUTXQiAQ

Green Eyes by the Diogenes Club: watch?v=haM88MjJDok

Black Rose by Future Islands: watch?v=QbeOL7bTuCQ

Crashing by MAALA: watch?v=8Pkdx-mo8wQ


	2. Every little thing that you say or do

"You don't look very happy for a guy that just bought thousands of euros of Versace."

Giorno looks up from his espresso, which is getting ever colder for each second that he does not drink it. Guido sits across from him, one arm swung over the back of his cair, leaning back with the sort of ease that he only gets after he and Sex Pistols have cased a place so thoroughly that only a stand user with more experience than himself would be able to avoid detection. Not an impossible person to find, but nearly impossible within Italy itself. Stand users were either born or created, and Giorno had ensured that any arrows in the country, which had first been brought in by the previous boss, remained in Passione hands, and there had been a not insignificant amount of resources ensuring that Passione had a handle of the supernatural within the country's borders. He had stepped on Speedwagon Foundation toes more than once back at the beginning, and it had made matters no better when they had learned that no only did Polnareff still live, but that he had lost his body for that of a tortoise's, and that he intended to stay in Italy with the new don of Passione.

Giorno had yet to return The Arrow that had given him Requiem and had no plans to do so, which had only annoyed the SPW even more, but the _real_ issues had only started _after_ they had learned that he was the son of Dio Brando. This was a fact that the SPW had not found out from speaking to Giorno himself but by turning to his DNA—which they had somehow acquired in a way on which Giorno still wasn't clear. Regardless of the method of acquisition the result had been the same: Passione now had a division to specifically deal with the SPW, and to ensure that stand nor non-stand user SPW employees alike could not get into the country without Giorno's explicit approval. And his approval was a hard thing to earn, especially after they had tried to "convince" him to turn himself over for constant observation, as the only dhampir of which they were currently aware.

Not that Giorno had manifested any vampiric abilities or quirks to speak of, but apparently the… blood of one of his fathers was enough to set off warning bells, and his overbite was enough to cause pandemonium in the DC offices of the SPW. Last he had heard from Polnareff was that there was apparently one employee that kept photos of Giorno's overbite to prove that his canines were growing longer over the years, and that this was proof positive that Giorno was growing into his latent vampirism like some kind of delayed second puberty. Giorno had snorted at that. After all, the SPW had been too late—Giorno had already had a second puberty, so something related to a sudden hunger for blood would be a third puberty, at the very least.

"One of those days, huh?"

Giorno blinks up from his espresso. "I'm sorry, Guido. What were you saying?"

Guido leans forward, pushing his empty cup and saucer to the side and resting both of his forearms on the table. "What's got you so distracted?"

"Did you know that espresso tastes much better when you mix it rather than when you swirl it?" Giorno tries to deliver the statement with as much enthusiasm as he can distill into the words, but the water of his emotions is cool and the brew is weak. Maybe if he had more time to pull the shot. Then it would be stronger.

It's Guido's turn to blink at Giorno and blink he does. "Is there something wrong with yours…?"

Giorno picks up his own cup and holds it out between them. The cup is white and the espresso is brown. Entirely what you might expect. Giorno holds it out anyways, and he puts the index finger of his free hand on the side and near the bottom of the cup. "The first liquid out of the spout is incredibly thick, it's incredibly dense."

"Sure. What about it?" Guido asks with a nod.

"All of that just sits at the bottom and as the brew progresses less and less dense liquid is coming out, and then the subsequent layers rest on top of that very first dense layer without ever mixing."

"And… how is this a problem?"

"Well, if you don't mix it, your first sip is just going to be the last part of the shot, isn't it?" Giorno brings his index to the top of the cup, nearly to the rim but not quite.

"Then why don't you drink it all at once?"

"If I'm _not_ inclined to drink it all at once then my first sip will be thinner, have less texture, less sweetness. And when you sip it again it gets a little bit better," Giorno says while dragging his finger down the side and roughly halfway to the bottom, "and then you sip again and maybe you finish with just the super dense liquid from the start of the shot." He taps the underneath of the cup. "This is much sweeter, but then it's also much, much more acidic. So what you've just had was three evolving, interesting, but ultimately unsatisfying sips of your espresso."

Guido slumps even further onto the table and his arms stretch out so far that he nearly reaches Giorno's sauce on the other side of the table. "I think I know where this is going," he says with a sigh so gusty he might as well be the one that should be described as the westerly Corsican wind for which Libeccio is named. "You mix it all together so you can get the same experience three times, right?"

"Exactly that."

"Okay. But what if I want three different sips of espresso?"

"Why wouldn't you want to ensure that all of them are the same?" Giorno answers Guido's own question with a question of his own, and he puts his cup back onto the saucer. The tiny spoon is yet to be touched.

"Giorno," Guido says with another sigh, sounding as if he's been burdened with the weight of the world after this espresso revelation, "it's a cup of coffee. Sometimes it's going to suck, and sometimes it's going to be great. You can't control all outcomes, you know."

The spoon is cool to the touch, a shiny silver that doesn't need the lights of the restaurant for it to gleam. "I can certainly try, can't I?" Giorno mixes his espresso.

"And how's that going for you, Mister Don Giovanna?" Guido's eyes are dark, as they always are. He's not wearing a cap today, but his tight curls fall over his brow and do exactly the same job that the cap would have.

Giorno brings his cup to his face. "I think it's going quite fi—" The espresso is _cold_, and he… greatly dislikes it when it is cold. He can't stop his face from scrunching at the taste.

Guido, traitor that he is, laughs. "All this talk about the perfect cup of espresso, and it still tastes like shit. You should've just drank it when it was fresh."

Giorno drinks it all at once, and it leaves a bitter film on his teeth. He tries to lick it off, but he can already feel the coffee breath. He waves a waiter over for another and the check.

"Alright, so it's clearly not the coffee that's got your panties in a twist. Did something happen while you were out with Trish?"

"Nothing happened while we were out," Giorno says very convincingly, twisting the edges of his serviette. It's slippery and smooth, and a deep red color. He tries to focus on it instead of Guido's frown.

"Sure, like I'm going to believe that. Come on, Giorno, just tell me what happened."

The serviette refuses to keep whatever shape Giorno tries to fold it into and eventually he must concede defeat. He lays it out over Guido's hands—which have not moved since the other man stretched out—and Guido watches Giorno do this with an unmoving face.

"Guido," Giorno starts, and then stops. He sucks on his bottom lip as he watches Guido tilt his head in acknowledgment. "What do you think of children?"

At first it seems like Guido hasn't heard him and Giorno resigns himself to repeating his words right up until Guido shakes his head. The shaking disturbs the curls hanging deliberately over his forehead, scattering them all over the place before they ultimately fall back down. "What, you mean… like, in general?" he asks, chewing his words over slowly in confusion.

"In general, if you don't mind."

Mista squints. He still does not move from his position of slumped over the table, and his eyebrows are a riot of motion whereas the rest of him is not. That was something Giorno had learned back in the early days, when Guido had forgotten to wear a cap. Guido had a thousand-yard stare that he could hold at the turn of a dime, but it was his eyebrows that would give him away. "They're fine, in general. Why?"

The waiter, bless their soul, chooses that moment to swing by with a new espresso and the check, and they leave as quickly as they came.

Giorno stirs his espresso. "And how would you feel about being a parent? Theoretically, of course."

Guido's squint deepens impossibly more, leaving his eyes as slits narrowed in silent accusation. "I haven't really thought about it. And besides, who would want to raise a kid in the mafia?" His voice dips at the last few words but Giorno resists the urge to learn closer. "That's just asking for trouble."

"You're right, of course." Giorno says with a nod of his head. He takes a sip and the espresso is very hot, nearly too hot but not quite. It's a lighter roast as well, and the taste is softer and less aggressive, almost fruity. He takes another sip. "It would be ridiculous to even entertain the thought, wouldn't it? Especially in our positions." Giorno finishes his espresso, and when he looks down into his cup he sees the faintest of streaks on the ceramic. "We might as well get going. Did Fugo say when he would be—"

"What, exactly, are you trying to ask me?" Guido finally moves, taking the serviette with him and sitting up straighter than Fugo, which is no small feat to achieve.

"I believe that I was quite clear with my questions, wasn't I?"

"But that doesn't explain _why_."

Giorno does not suck on his bottom lip, but it is a very near thing. "There is no _why_. There's nothing to explain."

Guido stands with a snort, and he tosses the serviette on the table. "That might've been convincing if you hadn't tried saying that to the guy that's known you for a literal decade. What do you think I am, Giorno? An idiot?"

"No, of course not—"

"Listen, just tell it to me straight. Are you pregnant?"

"_No._" Giorno can't even spit the word out fast enough, but Guido just keeps going on, steamrolling right on through Giorno's protestations.

"I'm going to need to know if you _are_. Your safety is kind of my entire job description. And _also_ it's _kind of_ a fucking dick move to keep stuff like this from me!"

"Guido!" Giorno can't help himself from scolding, and Guido looks abruptly taken aback before his simmering anger rolls to a full boil.

"No, fuck you, Giorno. I can't believe you would be so—so reckless! When did this happen? _Who_ the fuck was it?"

"How many times do I need to say it? I'm not pregnant!" Giorno hisses as he pushes out of his seat, and he tries to maintain some semblance of a level voice. He can see some of the closer patrons turn to stare, and his skin itches with the scrutiny. "And besides, I've literally never—" Giorno bites his own words.

Guido is quick to follow them, but apparently can't see where they lead, and he asks, "You've never _what_?"

"I'm done with this conversation." Giorno picks up the check.

Guido's anger is a self-igniting, self-sustaining sort of thing, with enough energy to keep itself boiling. "Oh, I'm sorry, _you're_ done with this conversation? _You're_ the one that brought it up in the first place."

"And maybe this is why I never discuss these sorts of things with you? Have you ever considered that?"

"So _I'm_ the problem, is that it?"

"_No_, I'm just saying—"

"You can be a real piece of work sometimes, Giorno. What am I supposed to think, when you start asking questions like that? You never tell anyone anything, and you just always expect us to be able to intuit whatever the hell you're thinking or what you need. Well, guess _what_? I can't, okay, and I've known you for a goddamned _decade_. When are you going to learn to talk to me like a normal person?"

The receipt crinkles in Giorno's fist. It's cheap paper, flimsy in the way most single-use things are. "I'm _trying_," Giorno grits out, but he's beginning to feel a bit unmoored, and whatever he _was_ feeling is getting further and further away from him, or he's getting further and further away from it. The people around him, whose stares had bothered him not minutes ago, fade into something gray and fuzzy, and it's only the vibrance of Guido's outfit that captures Giorno's attention.

"You know one of these days you're going to learn that not all of us can just understand you from having one deep and oh-so-meaningful stare. Buccellati's been dead for god knows how long, and it's time you stopped pretending like he's just going to magically appear and be the partner you've always wanted. It's not fair to the rest of us," Guido gulps, and there is maybe a second's worth of reprieve before he boils over, "_and_ you knew him for a _week_. Let's not kid ourselves into thinking that whatever you had with him was special. I knew the guy for a year and you don't see me clinging onto his corpse like you are."

Had Giorno been able to hold onto anything he might have brought up Trish and her unusual connection to Buccellati, and maybe even how the shape of his relationship with her seemed to be so much different than the shape of his relationship to Guido.

But Giorno can't hold on to anything, and his words are flat when he lets them go. "I'll be working with Fugo tomorrow. I think it might be best if you didn't join us."

Steam practically billows out of Guido's nose when he exhales, and if he were a moka pot he'd be whistling off the stovetop. "Sure. Okay. Got any more orders, _Boss_?"

Giorno shakes his head and tries to unclench his fist, but his limbs feel so very far away. Guido clicks his tongue. He stares at Giorno for a few moments more and Giorno stares back, but Guido must not find what he's looking for.

He walks out of the restaurant without waiting for Giorno.

* * *

A/N: I told myself that I wouldn't post until I was done with chapter 3 but I have no patience! Also I'm working on chapter 5 of It's Always You, so this got put on the backburner, again. Sorry!

It's been a while... ah ha.. haha... I am so sorry. I was very intimidated to update this story, because I liked the first chapter so much. For my other stories I think I stumble quite a bit with the actual writing, but this one I thought was some of my best work, and so I was worried to add more chapters because I knew that my writing would not be as good as the first chapter. I'm sure that sounds funny to my readers, but this was a real worry that I had! Eventually I got over myself...

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my discord server: discord.(gg) (forward slash) WbdEqFQ

I've made a server where you can join other folx to discuss my writing or jojo in general! It was made specifically for trans, nonbinary, intersex, aromantic, and asexual fans, but questioning folx are very much welcome as well. We have a weekly movie night where we've been watching jojo, and we have a lot of fanwork channels and discussions about jojo fashion, music, academic analysis, etc (you name it, we probably got it!) We've also got a few bot channels for some low level interaction. Come on and give it a look if that sounds like something you'd like to join (and any level of interaction is encouraged, whether it be active everyday or lurking!) :D

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